


Cherry Bomb!

by neville



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dumbledore's Army, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Inspired by Music, Kissing, M/M, Music, There is a whole soundtrack to this, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, also background deamus, and background fremione, background drarry and linny that probably aren't immediately obvious but yeah they're couples, lotsa background, they're totally a couple, you guys have no idea how fluffy this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: An alternative OOTP, set in 2017-18; Neville listens to music all the time, and George supplies his tracks - much beknowst to everybody but themselves, they're completely head over heels.





	1. Not Too Soon

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this entire fic is soundtracked and it's really important that, if you can, listen to the soundtrack!

_Best of Friends – Palma Violets  
_ The fact that Neville hasn’t missed the Hogwarts Express is nothing short of a miracle; though he had left with plenty of time to spare, he had promptly turned around upon the realisation that Trevor was still sitting on his nightstand and not in his bag where he should be, and had been faced by both a late bus and mounds of diversions and temporary traffic lights before finally arriving at King’s Cross and shoving through the crowds to barrel onto the platform, accidentally ramming straight into Ginny.

“Oh!” he gasps as they fall apart like the failing dominos. “I’m so sorry.”

“No harm done,” she says with a smile.  She looks pretty, her hair swept up into a high ponytail, and she’s lingering at Michael Corner’s side, drumming lightly on her suitcase. “Ron’s already on the train, if you’re looking for him.” He can feel her gaze linger on his earphones; everybody stares at them, even when they know he wears them, and if he could explain, he wouldn’t feel so persecuted, but telling anyone is like baring his heart. He flexes his fingers where they’re wrapped around the handle of his suitcase, trying to ignore the feeling of awkwardness he feels whenever anyone looks.

“Oh, no, I’m not looking for Ron, but thanks,” he says with a smile, nodding at Michael and gently pushing past the crowds and onto the Hogwarts Express. It’s still a ridiculously old train, groaning and whining in comparison to the smooth rumble of the modern trains Neville takes for day trips, and it looks as if it hasn’t been decorated since the seventies, save (thank God) the charging ports and sockets; even the sweets on the trolley still look ancient, clad in wrappers that haven’t been in use for years. Some students like it, but Neville’s not sure he’s such a great fan of the train, not when it always sounds like it might erupt over a bridge on the way; gulping, he glances into the carriages he passes, waiting to catch a glimpse of a friendly face.

Or, if he’s lucky, George.

Some luck has shone upon him, and in the middle of the train is George, sitting in a carriage with a girl with blonde hair and earrings made of cute little felt strawberries; she’s reading an issue of The Quibbler upside down, and though Neville has no idea why she’s there and briefly entertains the thought that George might have a girlfriend (she looks crazy enough for his tastes), he slots himself in anyway, trying to be brave.

“Hi, Nev,” George says cheerily; he’s on his phone, probably messaging Fred in the next carriage with Lee and Angelina – or playing a game, and he shifts up to give Neville enough space to sit down. “This is Luna Lovegood. Luna, Neville. She’s a transfer.” He smiles at her; she smiles back over the pages. She’s also pretty; Ginny is harder in her looks, all weather-beaten and Quidditch player, but Luna is soft and pale and ethereal, like she’s been dropped out of the pages of a children’s fantasy story as some fair princess.

A fair princess that reads kooky magazines upside-down, that is.

George is complaining in the background about the patchy Hogwarts Express wi-fi – at least, Neville thinks, it works for him _at all_ ; the wi-fi has flat-out fought with his phone for as long as he’s had a smartphone – and fishing in his bag for his earphone splitter. Neville, who has spent the majority of his summer alone and taking day trips on his own with his music, is happy to enjoy the monotony of friendship again – he’d never expected to strike a bond with George Weasley, and yet he has, one surprisingly strong and made of iron and music. It’s better than being on his own on a lot of levels; he feels better when he’s with friends, happier, more confident.

“What are you listening to, Neville?” Luna asks curiously, eyeing up his earphones; she asks it kindly, though. Most people ask it in a way that implies they want him to pull them out and speak to them without them, in a way that suggests they don’t respect him enough to ask why he might be listening to music in social situations in the first place.

“The song’s just finishing, actually,” he says awkwardly as George passes him the earphone splitter. “George helps me pick music to listen to.”

“Yeah!” George grins. “I’m the taste, he’s the ears. Together, we make up a grand total of two out of five senses – one of these days, we’ll find the rest of us, and fight the Fire Nation or something like that.” He nabs Neville’s phone and plugs in his earphones, a pair of cheap blue in-ear buds that have survived a surprisingly long time for his standards (they’re still going strong about two months in), pushing them into his ears. “You been listening to some new stuff?”

“Just looking around,” Neville shrugs.

 _Not Too Soon – Throwing Muses  
_ “So,” George says, fishing an old Mars Bar out of his pocket and offering some of it to Neville, who declines on sanitary grounds. “After last year’s Triwizard fiasco, think we might finally have a year where people don’t get petrified or we don’t have a mass murderer running around the school?”

“Not with Harry Potter on the grounds,” Neville sighs. He’s like some kind of siren call for trouble, and though he does his best to avoid the scuffles Harry seems to get himself into, he has a feeling that this might not be his lucky year, not when he’s this tall and strong enough to take care of himself. George is playing with his headphone wire, and he nods.

“Never heard this before. You been listening to music without me?”

Neville nods, his cheeks flushing. “It’s Throwing Muses – I really like their stuff, I...”

George grins and reaches up to messily pat Neville’s hair, setting loose a cacophony of stray strands across his forehead. “I’m just joking. You go and find some good music; you can’t just listen to mine forever – and this is some good shit, I’m telling you. Keep listening to these girls.” He leans back again, letting his head flop against the back of his chair. “This would be a good album to do your gardening to.”

“I don’t do gardening,” Neville says, confused. George waves a hand.

“The plant thing.”

“Herbology?”

“That.”

Neville smiles into his lap, and nods. “Okay. Maybe I will.”

* * *

_Eyes – Peter Bjorn and John  
_ Neville’s phone has run out of steam by the time they make it to Hogwarts, worn out by the music he’s shared with George, and so his first order of business is to dump his suitcase on his bed and plug it in; of course, he’s learned to be a little more prepared from years of screw-ups like running out of battery, so he has his iPod safely tucked away in his pocket and keeping him busy.

One would think that Neville would get sick of listening to music all the time, but really, it just accelerates his love for it – when he’s sure nobody is around, he takes the opportunity to dance, to sing along, to step to the beat and whirl around; it’s what occupies him between Herbology and trying to keep up with his Potions homework.

It’s why George knows him – he’d thought he was alone, because nobody tends to venture out into the greenhouses after class but him, to take care of the plants and read up, and he had been dancing to something or another (the embarrassment has pushed the track from his mind entirely and left him only with the memory of his ridiculous dancing) when George had walked in.

And somehow, George had leaned in, plucked one of the earphones out of Neville’s ear, and grinned.

Just as Neville thinks that, for once, it’s safe to start dancing, the door opens and Harry walks in, looking exhausted; Neville coughs lightly and unpacks his things at a regular pace as Ron comes flowing in behind Harry like a lost puppy, the two talking in low tones as Neville ignores them.

The door opens again and Neville expects Seamus or the like, but instead, it’s George, with Trevor perched on his shoulder. “Found him,” he says, sounding pleased as he passes the toad to Neville. “Chilling out in the common room.”

“Thanks,” Neville says, flustered that he didn’t even notice Trevor’s absence; George grins and ducks back out as Neville places Trevor down on the duvet. Ron gives him a strange look, but Neville is too absorbed in the music, and he misses it completely.

Neville lays his spare iPods out in order on his nightstand proudly, and heads back through to the common room, keen to avoid trouble. Fred and Lee are in the middle of an intense game of Just Dance, and Hermione is reading glumly on her Kindle. Neville frowns and takes the seat next to her.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” he asks, brows knitted together.

“No!” she exclaims with a sigh. “I’m having to read books on this stupid Kindle, because they wouldn’t all fit in my bag and I couldn’t get any Undetectable Extension Charms to work.” Neville’s not sure how this is a problem, but he nods sympathetically anyway. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t asked you yet: how was your summer?”

“Oh, it was okay. Just the same – took a few trips out here and there, but didn’t really do much. How about you?”

“It wasn’t very exciting, either,” she says softly. “But at least nothing bad happened.”

“That’s true.” Neville nods, looking over his shoulder to where Seamus and Dean are light-heartedly bickering with Ginny and Lavender over who’s better at Just Dance and smiling; it’s nice to be back in the common room, what with its gentle buzz of activity to back his music. He thumbs the iPod in his pocket and it clicks through the tracks.

 _Hard Times – Paramore  
_ “You know,” Hermione says, pushing her Kindle away to turn to face Neville. “I made Ron come with me to the cinema over the summer – did you know he’s never been before?”

“Most wizards haven’t even heard of the cinema,” Neville points out. “Unless they’re Muggle-born or half-blood, they might only hear about it through school or friends. And some wizards are elitist about Muggle technology, even though it’s really good these days.” The Weasleys seem to be the exception; the twins are attached to their smartphones and all of them argue over who gets to play on their handheld consoles. The fact that Ron’s never been to the cinema surprises him, especially when he knows from talking to Percy (who seemed to take pity on him) that George has been to see a film before.

“It’s stupid,” Hermione says, shaking her head.

“I agree,” Neville nods. “I think a lot of Muggle technology is really useful – and music players have been so helpful…” Hermione smiles sympathetically, her eyes falling on the wires that trail from Neville’s ears into his pocket. “I like record players the most, though. I like their sound.”

“Ron says you and George have been talking all summer.”

Neville blushes; he tries, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “We struck up a conversation once and he said he’d send me tracks, because we have similar music taste…” He fetches his iPod out of his pocket and shows Hermione one of George’s playlists; though her eyebrows are raised, she nods. “I know – I didn’t really expect him to help me out like that, but he knows what I like.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Hermione says firmly, clasping her hand over his. “That’s what’s important.”

* * *

_Hard Times – Paramore (again)  
_ Neville has spent most of his years at Hogwarts alone at lunchtime, and that suits him fine: he can usually be found sitting somewhere outside, swaying to the beat in his ears, but Luna seems to have taken an interest in him and she approaches him, perched as he is under a large tree on the grounds.

“Hello, Neville,” she says cheerily, sitting cross-legged opposite him and eating a tuna sandwich delicately. “I’m very curious: how much music do you have?”

“I don’t really know,” he says honestly. “A few hundred songs, maybe? I add as many albums as I can on Spotify, so I don’t know about that. I want to listen to as much as I can. I think it helps me.”

“It broadens your horizons,” Luna adds chirpily; she seems nice, Neville thinks. He’s not sure where on Earth she could’ve transferred from, because she doesn’t sound foreign, but she doesn’t bother him or pester him with questions about why he’s listening to music like everyone else does. “I think George likes you.”

Neville frowns. “We’re friends; of course he likes me. I think. Maybe.”

“Not like that – but I don’t know if he knows,” she says, sounding a little more cautious as she sounds out the words. “I get that vibe from his aura. It’s very bright about you.” Auras. Of course; Neville has befriended a nutcase – just his luck. Next thing he knows, she’ll be reading his tarot cards and tea leaves; though, he supposes, it could be interesting and perhaps even fun – though knowing how his luck appears to be turning here, he’d probably end up with Death.

“Don’t be silly,” Neville mumbles, but not unkindly. “He’d never.”

“Of course he would,” Luna replies without batting an eyelid. “You’re very nice.”

“And very stupid.”

Luna frowns, but decides not to push it; instead, she continues on with her sandwich, and asks very half-heartedly, as if he might run away just at the question, “would you like to come and feed the thestrals with me?” And he smiles and nods, extending out an earbud to her because it’s the only form of communication he really understands; George has taught him the intricacies, and because Neville can never read people, he relies on music to know how they’re feeling.

Maybe, he thinks with a lurch to his stomach, Luna is right.

His suspicions are piqued when, just before he goes to bed, George catches him and tells him to listen to _Put Your Life On It_ ; lying on his back and staring at the patterned ceiling, he wonders when his stomach will stop performing nosedives.


	2. Easy

_Green Light (Chromeo Remix) – Lorde  
_ Neville sticks to the greenhouses like they’re a honey trap; when he’s there, he can listen to his music in peace and doesn’t have to be bothered by anyone. It feels so much safer than the common room – once the year has started to wind on, people stop bothering him and stop trying to pester him about what he’s listening to (which, until George, was never much at all or the same albums over and over ad infinitum), but until then, he tries to keep himself as invisible as possible and plasters himself to the wall when he walks.

Thankfully, everybody is busy pestering Harry again this year. Neville is able to keep to himself, but he stays in the greenhouses anyway, just in case – besides, he has complete peace to listen to his music and enjoy it in the way he wants to, especially now that George has helped him find so much good music. Before George, Neville never really listened to much besides what his family had piled together on his iPod and what they tentatively bought him Christmas after Christmas; Hermione had tried buying him some music, too, but their tastes had never collided much.

George’s, however, is perfect. Neville had been surprised the first time he’d received a message from George over the holidays, and even more so to find that it was a beautifully curated playlist that he hadn’t been able to stop listening to for days, headed by Sky Ferreira’s _Everything Is Embarrassing_ ; he’d sent more and more, and eventually, they had started trading them like goods, grinning and leaving comments on each other’s and their favourite songs from each – George had even sent over a CD of _My Time, Night Time_ , and Neville’s been attached and had significantly better taste ever since.

He glances down at his iPod and flicks through it aimlessly, feeling in the mood for something else; he leaves the clicker on because he likes the noise, the way it makes him feel connected to the iPod, like it’s not just a device, like it’s a connector of some sorts. He has more than one, of course, but he prefers to use the original, which he’s somehow never managed to lose completely yet.

 _Tightrope – Janelle Monáe ft. Big Boi  
_ As he lets the song, which isn’t one he listens to much (if at all, really), it comes through him like a jolt – this is what he was listening to when George found him, and he can remember almost within the first few beats why he happened to be dancing to this track in the first place: it’s infectious. He just likes to dance along to tracks, and he doesn’t think that should be so embarrassing, and yet somehow it is – he _can_ dance, and he knows this, but people seem to overlook that in favour of the fact that he’s dancing and something about dancing to music that they can’t hear is hilarious.

Still, it certainly doesn’t stop him. There’s nothing more fun than working in time to the drums, and he slides along the greasy floors, grinning as he whirls and taps his feet and clicks his heels and prunes the plants to the rhythm. It makes him forget, makes him remember nothing but the hum of the bass and Monáe’s confident voice, forget that there’s a war happening and a terrifying Dark Lord out there who seems to smother the world like an angry cloud, and just remember that, in this moment, he is having the time of his _goddamned life_ ; the people who sit on their phones all day pissing away their time can get fucked, he reckons, because this is the only way to live – with rhythms running through your veins.

This time, it’s not George; it’s Fred.

Neville cringes internally, stopping dancing to slam to the floor as fast as possible, hoping that he hasn’t been seen, but Fred doesn’t seem to have noticed him at all, hands shoved in his pockets as he whistles a tune Neville’s sure he’s just made up, glancing around curiously. “Neville?” he calls out, occasionally pausing to admire a plant or speeding up to avoid whatever plant is attempting to kill, choke, or maim him (Herbology, as it so happens, is a particularly dangerous subject).

Slowly and not entirely surely, Neville raises himself up from the floor; Fred raises an eyebrow, but decides not to question this entrance further, instead crossing the distance between them. “Right. Hi. I need to talk to you, and I thought I’d actually do it in person instead of messaging you, since this is important.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and a smaller headphone splitter than George usually uses; Neville is used to sharing his music and plugs in.

 _Two Doors Down – Mystery Jets_  
“I’m not usually the person to do this, and to be honest, I should’ve sent Hermione or something.” Fred sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s George – I don’t know if you know, because Ron certainly suggested to me that you were hopelessly oblivious, but he really likes you. Romantically, I mean. The poor bastard can’t _sleep_ half the time thinking about you, and it’s really annoying because he won’t ask you out because he thinks it’ll ruin whatever thing you two have right now.”

Neville pauses a minute to steady himself; Luna had said it, and he hadn’t really believed it from her, and now Fred’s telling him – Fred could be joking, after all, but he certainly seems serious, his face crumpled a little and his brow painting a frown, and so the only thing Neville manages to stammer out is “are you serious?”.

Fred doesn’t seem surprised by this question, and he leans back against an empty table; it’s where the Mandrakes will go when they’re adults, but they’re not big enough yet. “I’m serious – if my brother’s not got enough balls to ask you out and is gonna sit there and mope about it, I’m going to ask _you_ to ask him out.”

Neville pauses and takes the briefest of moments to enjoy the song, which is quite a nice one; it’s probably somewhere on one of George’s playlists, because it doesn’t sound like Fred’s usual mainstream pop. “I – I don’t know, I’m not sure I can either.”

Fred groans, dipping his head backwards. “Oh, come on. One of you has to have some balls.” He reaches up to scratch his chin. “Well, fine. I’ll make this easy for you – how about you just pick a song or something to tell him that you like him? Or, right, here we go, I’ll tell him that you asked me to tell him that you like him. If that makes sense. Which I’m sure it does, because I’m highly intelligent.”

A grin forms itself on Neville’s lips. “There’s a song I’d like him to hear, but I’m not sure...” Neville pauses, toying with the zip on his hoodie, thinking about listening to _Put Your Life On It_ over and over while flopped out on his bed. “He sent me a song last week that I’m really not sure I can top.”

“If it’s from you, he’ll love it. I swear.” Fred fishes a scrap of paper out of his pocket, a receipt from a record store, and a biro that doesn’t look like it has any ink left in it, but that works surprisingly well. “Just... ask him out, right? You two should honestly stop not saying things and just say something, for once. Talk about your feelings and that.” He passes it over to Neville, whose handwriting is usually illegible, and he takes a good few moments to carefully write out each letter in a way that might actually be understood by people that aren’t him. “Can I listen? Or, hell, even see the song?”

Neville goes tomato red – he’s never blushed as much in his life, he thinks, as he has just in this school year. “No – just let George see it. It’s private.”

Fred raises his eyebrows. “Jeez. You guys are moving fast, and I haven’t even spoken to the other one yet,” but he’s grinning anyway, and he takes the slip of paper, stuffing it in his pocket. “By the way, that Ravenclaw girl, Luna, has been looking for you. She’s wandering around by Potions, I think.”

Neville nods and watches Fred leave, hoping desperately that the song he’s just sent George isn’t going to embarrass him too much, because he knows he’s just let out a little too much of his soul.

* * *

 _Hourglass – Catfish and the Bottlemen  
_ When Neville eventually makes it back to the common room, George is nowhere to be found, nor is Fred; he gulps, but tries not to think too hard about his potential fate and instead takes a seat at the desk to finish up the last few lines of his Transfiguration essay. Dean takes a seat next to him, and because he knows it’s okay, that he’s got permission, he nabs an earphone out of Neville’s ear and places it in his.

“Hey, Dean,” Neville says, turning away from the essay (he can finish it at any time between here and tomorrow, after all). “How – I’m sorry, this is a personal question, but how did you and Seamus start going out?”

Dean chews on the end of his pen, a proper artist’s pen that must’ve cost him more than should ever be reasonable for a pen. “I don’t really remember. We both just knew that we liked each other, and we spoke a lot, and one day it just... it just sort of happened.” He taps the table, drums his fingers on the oak. “Do you have someone special?”

Neville chews his lip. “Just thinking about it, in between the homework and everything else.”

Dean nods, reaching over to clap Neville on the back. “Well, mate, if you want, they’re showing _Hot Fuzz_ in the Hufflepuff common room – starts in ten minutes, apparently they’ve got popcorn and the whole shebang.” _That_ probably explains where Fred and George are, and why the common room is unusually quiet – there are some nights, of course, where everybody is just tired and they all go to bed early, particularly in the winter and sometimes around exam time (usually at the end of exams), but this explains a lot. Neville’s jealous – the Hufflepuffs always seem to have a monopoly on the film and party scenes, and it leaves the Gryffindor common room empty of people to talk to when there’s an event on. “You coming?”

“Yeah, sure.” Neville figures he can finish the homework either when he gets back or in the morning – he _knows_ it’s bad form to leave things late, but he’s still worn out from adjusting back to school hours, and most often finds himself, when not doing anything, napping at the table to some easy listening tunes.

He follows Dean along the corridors and to the Hufflepuff common room; everyone knows the password, and as Dean reaches down to tap on the barrel, the door is flung open by a very cheery-looking Ernie Macmillan. “Hi, guys! Come on in.”

As ever, the common room is packed: it always is on any Hufflepuff movie night, and especially as it’s still the beginning of the year and nobody’s quite yet hit their stride of worries, despite the tendrils of darkness that are Dolores Umbridge spreading through the school like a common cold. There are students from every house, even some of the higher-brow Slytherins, from whom Neville keeps a considerable distance; he slots in next to George, who grins at him. The Gryffindors tend to group together, and most of those in Neville’s year are all crowded around, with Fred and George and Lee and a few others from their year and above and even a few below making up the rest of the group, with some others dotted around. Much to Neville’s disappointment, many of them are on their phones instead of speaking – he’s not bothered usually, but at mildly social events like this, he can’t say he’s particularly happy about it, but he supposes that’s not his problem.

George is on Instagram, from the looks of things, but Neville doesn’t like to pry and so he doesn’t look further, turning to talk to Dean about their shared History of Magic lesson before the lights dim and someone starts to draw the blinds. George glances over at Neville, gesturing to his earphone; Neville nods, and, with surprising tenderness, George pulls them out of his ears and squeezes Neville’s hand.

“Alright?” he asks quietly, the sound of sirens from the television beginning to drown him out, but Neville has adjusted to being able to hear lots of different things, thanks mostly to listening to music.

“I’m okay,” says Neville, because all he can hear is the sound of the film, and it drowns out everything else.

* * *

When the film is over, the common room is buzzing pleasantly with amusement and post-action high; almost everybody has had a little too much sugar, and Neville makes off with a bag of popcorn still in his hands as he wanders back along the corridors, trying not to get lost – he doesn’t know the pattern of the stairs this time of the evening very well, so he keeps his eyes peeled, Dean having slipped off earlier with Seamus (why, Neville will not ask).

He misses the feeling of George’s hand already; it’s stupid, he thinks, and far too sentimental for him to be like this, but the idea that George’s feelings might be reciprocal makes him happy, and he hums as he walks back to his dorms – he checks, of course, before he starts singing fully, but he’d slipped out of the film early while others were still talking or nabbing more popcorn and sweets or, perhaps, watching the full credits. “ _That’s why I’m easy; I’m easy like Sunday morning..._ ”

“Hey, Nev!”

George comes up behind him like a pleasant (or unpleasant, since Neville hates other people hearing his inadequate singing voice) surprise, slinging an arm round his shoulder. “That’s a nice song you’re singing. What is it?”

Neville stumbles. “Do you, er, want to listen to it? I’ve got it on, uh, one of these iPods, somewhere...” He fumbles in his pockets until his fingers eventually close round his third spare iPod, his only one without a case and at serious risk of some kind of damage when he inevitably drops it, managing somehow despite his shaky hands to plug in his earphones and share one with George, clicking his way through his many playlists and trying to remember where this song goes (or whether he should abandon playlists and head for the artist or album section).

 _Easy – Sky Ferreira_  
George guides him into a side corridor so they stop taking up space, and they rest up against a surprisingly cold wall (Neville wonders if it’s enchanted, or if Peeves has something to do with this – or if, maybe, it was Fred and George) as George sways to the song, eyes shut, mouth twitched into a smile. “This,” he says, “is so good.”

“It’s one of my favourite songs,” Neville says, returning to his favourite nervous habit of playing with the zipper of his hoodie, trying not to look too much at George, who looks blissful, even in the soft shadows of the corridor which paint his face and make him look, for the briefest of seconds, like he might belong in an art gallery somewhere in a country like France or Italy. He’d make a good fresco.

Or, Neville supposes, the Tate’s not bad.

“Fred said you liked me,” George says. “Is that true?”

Neville nods, nervously. “Uh-huh. A lot.”

George’s eyes light up. “Yeah. I like you, too.” He leans forward, slowly, seeming to gauge Neville’s reaction as their foreheads touch; Neville can feel George’s warm breath steam out through his nostrils, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to a person in his whole life, but he loves it – God, he loves it, he loves the feeling of being connected with someone like this, on an intimate level, listening to the same song and feeling the same feeling and knowing that they’re both so comfortable like this.

When the song comes to an end, Neville has already clicked his way through to the next one, desperate to keep the song going.

 _We Found Love – Palma Violets_  
George starts to laugh, recognising the riff instantly. “You are so much cheekier than anyone gives you credit for, do you know that?” He grabs Neville’s hand, winds their fingers together, and lightly tugs him along to the common room, easily flouncing across the stairs and bidding the portraits a light-hearted goodnight as he goes, like the Mary Poppins of Hogwarts. “I’m happy, though. I’m glad you like me.”

Neville wants to say something romantic in return, something sweet, but he has no idea what to say and stands with his mouth half-open for a few glaikit moments. “Yeah,” he says eventually, “me too,” hurrying to follow George, who’s so full of boundless energy that Neville feels like he’s never going to keep up.

George, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice his hesitance and bounds up the stairs. “ _I’m gonna find myself a ladyfriend and stick by her until the end_!” He turns round to Neville and grabs both his hands, waltzing him playfully along the corridors. “ _La la la la la Layla..._ ”

“George,” Neville says, “have you had anything to drink?”

George giggles and puts a finger to his lips. “Little bit of Firewhiskey. I’m just tipsy, though, I promise. And happy. This song’s a good one, after all. Come on, let’s get back to the common room.” This time, he doesn’t need to pull; Neville takes the initiative and hurries along after him, letting go of George’s hand before they step inside, his guts still performing too many elegant acrobatics to have to deal with any questions from any of the other Gryffindors. “I’m heading to bed. Night, Nev.”

He grins, waves, salutes, and disappears off, leaving Neville to bask in his afterglow. Neville doesn’t mind.


	3. Teenage Kicks

_Vacation – Florist  
_ Neville hadn’t seen George the next day, though he hadn’t paid that too much heed – the twins were often missing, either up to some prank or enjoying a party he didn’t know about or, most likely, in detention somewhere; it’s Saturday, though, and he’s sure he’ll find George out and about somewhere – for right now, though, he’s on the wizard buying service that’ll let him get his new cardigan sent through to Hogwarts from Amazon, because he’s tragically lost some of his clothes in an impromptu fire in his dorm that had also taken out at least two pairs of curtains. He’s also had _We Found Love_ stuck in his head for the past two days, as well as the way George had grinned so gleefully at him when they’d admitted liking each other, stuck in his mind like it’s been burned into his retinas.

He’s sitting with Luna, who’s writing an article for the Quibbler on the prominence of Wrackspurts in Hogwarts. He rather enjoys her company – she’s nice, and sweet, and simple, and seems to understand things, as strange as everyone thinks she is, and they’re out by the oak tree in the grounds, staying in the shade of the sweltering summer day. He’d usually be sitting out by the Lake, but there’s nowhere to hide there from the sun except the water, and he can’t see his screen there.

“I have a bad feeling about Umbridge,” Luna says, lowering the notepad in her hand. Neville frowns.

“But we already know she’s horrible,” he says.

“I think she could get worse,” Luna says, levelly, and then goes back to her work; Neville has no idea what this omen is meant to mean, but he tries not to think too hard about it as he gets back to finding a nice, warm new cardigan for when the winds of Scottish October start blowing in. “Oh – it’s George.”

Neville looks up, and it is indeed George, lightly jogging over and looking a little windswept from whatever he’s been up to (Neville would guess Quidditch practice or something of the sort). “Hey,” he says breezily. “You wanna come on a walk with me?”

Neville does not possess within him the ability to say no to an offer that good, and he tucks his iPad away into his shoulder bag, waving a goodbye to Luna, who doesn’t seem to notice his departure, too sucked up in her own world. He swaps his earphones into an earphone splitter, and notices that George’s have changed again, this time a honeybee yellow as he walks jauntily, leading Neville down his own well-travelled path to the Lake, where the flowers are growing in thick and the grass is getting to that point of grazing Neville’s calves – it’s a nice walk, though, where the sunlight spills through the heavy tree coverage in a kaleidoscope and it smells fresh, unlike the musty castle corridors and classrooms that look like they’ve never been cleaned, cobwebbed on the ceilings.

“Sorry about yesterday,” George says, offering the back of his hand as an explanation; Neville winces, taking the hand and running a thumb over the scar, the depth of which he can actually feel and he flinches. “Yeah, it’s not terribly pretty. She’s an old horror, is that Umbridge.”

“I hope you’re okay,” Neville offers, and George just laughs.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’ve had nastier injuries off of Quidditch.” He slides his hand into Neville’s as they trip along down the worn-out stone steps and along to the dry mud banks of the Lake, where it’s quiet – it’s a beaten-down path, and students prefer to keep out in the open, kicking their feet in their water or flying their brooms over it and curling into loop-the-loops to impress someone or another. There’s no-one else there, just people out in the distance as black dots, and Neville likes that solitude where he’s not entirely alone, but has enough peace to think and not be bothered.

This time, though, he doesn’t mind having George with him. George isn’t annoying, and isn’t going to pester him, and will happily listen to Neville’s music with him. He’s eating a packet of Skittles, and Neville has one every now and then, too. “I liked that song you sent me,” George says with a light laugh, like the wind whistling through the trees if it sounded like someone who was happy. “I’ve been trying to find another song to send you back, and I thought we could curate some kind of awesome playlist for the two of us, but I haven’t found one yet.”

“Take your time,” Neville shrugs. “You’ll find something – I mean, I think that song you sent me, _Put Your Life On It_ , was so much better than mine...”

“Are you kidding me? Yours was awesome! Come on, play it for me again. I like it.” Neville nods, concealing a smile behind his hand as he wheels through his various playlists, his tongue poking at his lip as he tries to find it; just out of the corner of his eye, he can see George watching him, and his cheeks pink with the attention he’s never had before – but, despite himself, he likes it. He likes the way George looks at him, not in a probing way, not in that way that everyone else looks at him like he’s stupid or that there’s something wrong with him, but in this way like he’s the centre of the universe.

 _Shut Up Kiss Me – Angel Olsen_  
George lights up like a firecracker. “That’s more like it!” Neville has a feeling that George appreciates the bangers more, the tracks that reverberate under his feet and make a lot of noise and disappear under twanging guitars packed with distortion; George doesn’t seem to be able to resist tapping his foot along to any track, crunching a leaf under his boot.

“George,” says Neville. George looks over.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for all the music – I’m really happy, and grateful, and you’ve really helped me out...” He fidgets, twiddles his thumbs, and in a burst of song-inspired bravery, he forces his hands apart from where his anxiety superglues them together and knits them at the back of George’s neck, crashing their lips together in a way that definitely belies the fact that he’s never done this and hasn’t thought enough about any kind of kissing techniques, accidentally toppling George into the cracking ground with overextended effort.

George is reciprocal; he reaches up and his hands don’t seem to know entirely where they’re going, switching from Neville’s face to his hair and to his back at a lightning pace, grinning into Neville’s mouth.

Neville shifts off of him after he accidentally whacks George in the face with a stray elbow. “Oh, Merlin, sorry.” He’s red, both flushed from the kiss and from having just hit the poor person on the other end of his lips.

“’s okay.” George, whose hands have been existing in some kind of bizarre limbo for the several moments without Neville, lets one rest on the small of Neville’s back, keeping him comfortably close. “That was something.”

“Oh, God.” Neville covers his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was nice, though,” George assures him, chuckling warmly as he reaches over and squeezes Neville’s hand with his free one; he’s pretty sure he’s going to be covered in mud and need to send his clothes straight through to laundry, but he doesn’t really mind as Neville lowers himself down tentatively to lie next to George, shoulder to shoulder, watching the fluffy summer clouds scud along pleasantly, like not a bad thing has happened in the world.

George, restless as he is, is still tapping his foot along to the song.

“That cloud,” he says, extending out his hand to point, “looks kind of like Snape.”

Neville bursts into such hearty laughter that he actually has to sit up and ride out the stomach cramp he’s given himself, wiping the tears from his eyes, because it _really does_ look like Snape and the idea that a cloud could look like Snape is just hilarious, somehow and he’s so happy in this moment, in the lightly stifling heat with the prospect of spending the year with George, with a way to avoid the facts of Umbridge and exams and struggling with some of his subjects. Usually, Neville doesn’t enjoy his school year much – there’s never much to look forward to, but now, Neville’s heart feels plush with prospects.

He hugs into George, happy.

* * *

Neville’s little castle of joy is brought crumbling down the first time he ends up with his own detention courtesy of Dolores Umbridge; she won’t let him listen to his music, either, and confiscates the iPod he has on him at the time, leaving him feeling even worse – the ripping into the skin of his hand is horrible and intensely painful, but it’s only worsened by every minute that passes by with the screaming in his ears, growing louder every second until he thinks it’s going to swallow him whole. His skin is pricked with sweat and his forehead shines in the dim light and he feels like his lungs aren’t taking anything in, like the air in the room is strangling him.

He can’t even stay. Neville is by no means a particularly brave Gryffindor, and it isn’t a moment of bravery when he throws the chair backward and runs out of her office with a shout of ugly anguish, immediately tripping over nothing and spending a few moments crawling along the floor, tears beginning to stream down his face as he clambers back to his feet and dashes off.

Finding George is easy – he’s in the common room, knee-deep in the homework he hasn’t done and is desperately trying to finish before he ends up with months’ worth of his own detentions, and he glances up at Neville’s entrance, so frenzied that he knocks over a table and shatters a vase of flowers, causing what feels like an endless amount of eyes to lift and stare right at him, piercing right through him.

Fuck.

Hermione is first to catch him, to ask him if he’s okay, and Neville somehow actually finds himself nodding in answer, stumbling over to George. “Neville –”

“I’ve got it,” George says smoothly, standing up and swinging an arm around Neville’s waist in one beautifully fluid movement, his other hand fumbling less gracefully in his pocket for his phone; he shares a sympathetic glance with Fred, and Hermione gives him a rather confused look, and Dean’s expression is impossible to read – Ron, of course, is being as helpful as ever, his jaw almost touching the ground thanks to his inability to hide his inner feelings. Harry elbows him. Neville doesn’t look up, and misses it all.

George doesn’t need to ask why Neville is in this kind of state, and he does his best not to let it show that he’s unnerved, a little terrified by how Neville could come unravelled like a ball of string so easily.

He places a pair of earphones in Neville’s ears, and a pair in his own, letting a familiar piano loop float through their heads. “Sing it with me,” he says, sounding confidently, reaching forward and closing his hands around Neville’s. “Come on. You know the words.”

 _Praise You – Fatboy Slim  
_ The corridors are not exactly empty, and instead full of people milling about with the after-dinner blues or walking around with their friends from other houses, and Neville’s eyes flick about nervously. George reaches up and places his hands on Neville’s cheeks, straightening his face so that he’s only looking into George and the explosion of freckles in the centre of his face, right around his nose. George’s eyes are pleading; the chords in Neville’s ears are strong, encouraging. “Come on. You can do this.”

Neville’s not sure he’s solidly reassured by this, and not by the sweat lashing down him, but George’s hands are warm on his face and he nods; he’s completely missed the first verse, and there’s what feels like an infinity in between where he gasps in breaths and wonders if maybe he can not do this, but George starts the second and Neville feels like there’s no way he can’t join in, not now that George is embarrassing himself in the middle of the corridors, holding him tight, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

“ _We’ve come a long long way together, through the hard times and the good; I have to celebrate you baby, I have to praise you like I should..._ ” The words aren’t hard; it’s probably the only song Neville thinks he could remember the words to and sing in the middle of a panic attack, and whether or not it’s because there’s only one very short verse or because it’s the song George first shared with him, he doesn’t know. Either reason, he supposes, is fine.

He remembers how to breathe in time, counting the seconds in and out on the tapping of George’s foot, and just before the song finishes, he takes George’s phone and dictates what comes next.

 _We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow – Soko_  
George lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck, I was half-expecting some Joy Division there.” He puts his arms around Neville, pulls him close, sways with him for a few moments as people walk by oblivious; perhaps there’s a moment being shared here, and Neville’s not really sure, his mind still racing with a thousand and one thoughts, but the music in his ears is so gentle and quiet that he begins to calm down, soft like the light spatter of rain before the thunderstorm starts, where the heat hangs heavy and waits in the atmosphere.

“She’s going to make me go back,” Neville says, muffled in George’s chest.

“Not as long as I’ve got anything to say about it.”

“What can you do?”

George shrugs. “A lot?”

“Well, I... appreciate the sentiment.” Neville goes quiet after that, leaning on George, waiting out the duration of the song in silence, leaving his head propped up on George’s shoulder and watching the students pass by, ignoring the stares; he tries not to laugh when he notices that Ginny is probably the person who seems to care the least, giving them one glance and not sparing another. “Thanks, George.”

“No problem. Umbridge is a foul bitch and I am more than happy to help someone who’s been slighted by the old cow, especially when it’s you.”

“My parents – the screaming – it was just so loud...”

“I know,” George says softly, stroking a thumb in the growing hair at the back of Neville’s neck. “I got you. I got you.”

Neville presses the play button on George’s phone, and he bursts into laughter, pushing Neville out just far enough to kiss him.

_Shut Up Kiss Me – Angel Olsen (again)_

* * *

_We Found Love – Palma Violets (again)  
_ They start their playlist later that day, with three songs on it. “I’ll find one,” George assures Neville, “I will definitely find one. We’ll get right back on this playlist. I’m just _curating_.” – George takes a lot of time curating, and so they just listen to this and that and whatever they feel like, letting the days pass by easily. George refuses to let Neville go to detention without music, to the point that he follows Neville in and sings songs himself, and when Umbridge gets rid of him, he returns ten minutes later with the school choir, who relentlessly sing outside her door until she gives in and lets Neville listen to his music, and then he’s able to get on with his detentions without having a variety of meltdowns, just a scar on the back of his hand that he sits and sucks on sometimes when no-one is looking.

Luna doesn’t ask him about it; instead, the next time they see each other, she reaches out and holds his hand as they sit reading their textbooks in study class, and she’s no George, but her hand is soft and doesn’t ask uncomfortable questions, and Neville thinks he’s in love with her as a friend just as much as he’s in love with George as a boyfriend.

Hermione asks about it, too, flanked by Dean and Seamus, who both seem concerned; Neville’s not sure whether or not to be angry, because he usually hates being badgered by people about the way he feels or why he listens to music or why he had a panic attack because of “just a detention”. He agrees to tell them, but in private, so he tells them one lunchtime in the Great Hall – it’s still not quite cold enough to have people eating indoors, as Hogwarts students are oft-resistant of the October breeze, so it’s surprisingly quiet over lunch and they have a fair amount of privacy.

It’s not something that Neville enjoys bringing up, and something he’s only actually told George before, and it feels like it hurts him to talk about; he brings along his iPod and makes a playlist of _We Found Love_ so that it lasts two hours, because though he’s sure he’ll hate the song at the end of lunch break, it reminds of George and falling stupidly in love and makes him feel a little less terrified.

He doesn’t really remember a time before the screaming in his ears; he knows what it is, and where it came from, but nobody has been able to explain to him why the sound of his parents screaming in mortal agony has been ringing in his ears for something like fifteen years. He’s been drowning it out with music his entire life because the noise terrifies him and, without music, builds to a climax where it makes up all he can hear and drives him insane just like his parents.

The colour has drained from Hermione’s face when he finishes telling his story, especially when he tells her about Umbridge forcing him to sit without music; he’s too shy to tell people, and he hates telling people what happened to his parents because he’s convinced it makes him a laughingstock, and he doesn’t want their deaths, their brave, valiant deaths, to be made fun of in any way. Dean is chewing his lip, and Seamus almost looks green, gripping Dean’s arm in a vice.

“Oh my God, Neville,” Seamus says, the first to actually make any noise. “That’s so...” He struggles for a word. “Fucked-up.”

Neville lets out an uncertain laugh. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Seamus offers, either in response to the story or in his mediocre reaction to it.

“So, George has been helping you with picking music to support you?” Hermione leans in, brushing some hair out of her ears and tucking it behind her ears, eyes wide and curious. “That’s very sweet of him. He’s... quite lovely, actually, beyond the pranks and those stupid products of his and Fred’s.”

“He is,” Neville says with a stifled smile, scratching at his arm. “And he’s helped me a lot.”

“If you need any help, anything at all, Neville, we’re here for you,” Hermione says softly but firmly.

“We should go for pizza after the meeting with Harry at Hogsmeade this weekend,” Dean suggests; though it’s not been around for very long, just a few years, but Fortescue’s Pizza Parlour has already solidified itself as a student favourite, always packed to the nines every visit. “What do you think, Nev?”

Neville nods. “Okay – but we should invite other people, too, and maybe have a big meet-up and all eat pizza together.”

Seamus rubs his hands together. “I’m so feckin’ excited for this,” he beams, and for once, Neville is, too, because he feels like he’s part of something, part of a group, surrounded by people who don’t want to poke and prod but just want to make sure that he’s alright, and he feels awful that he’s been missing this for years – but, he thinks, he’s here now. And he’s going to enjoy it.

* * *

 _Head of the Horse – The Drums  
_ Friday evenings are Neville’s favourite part of the week, because he feels the most relaxed, knowing he has a full two days to go of no classes – and it’s the time he gets to spend with George before the weekend detentions slash homework slash Quidditch practice slash whatever George gets up to on the weekends; Neville’s got no idea, really. Detentions aren’t much of a point of discussion, even those with Umbridge.

It’s getting to that point of being a tad cold to be outside, and so Neville is wearing a big puffy jacket with his hands stuffed in the pockets and is sitting on one of the benches in the courtyard, waiting. The album is courtesy of George, a present to help cheer Neville up after the debacle with Umbridge, and he’s been enjoying it immensely, and despite the fact the world seems to be completely falling apart around him, he feels strangely relaxed about it all; maybe he’s taking it from George’s laid-back approach to life.

George is wearing a tartan bomber, which looks infinitely cooler than Neville’s puffy khaki, and he lands so hard on the bench that it groans under the exertion of his weight. “Hey,” he says cheerily. “Guess who’s not got detention this weekend?”

“Um, I guess you?” Neville smiles, resting his head on George’s shoulder.

“It is totally me. You should be proud. I even brought some chocolate.” George’s pockets, Neville has found, are entirely endless and probably charmed to the ears; he seems to be able to store entire picnics or textbooks in them, though this time it’s just a double Milky Way and a litre bottle of chocolate milk. “By the way, I managed to find a proxy, so we’re back on for films if you want to do the old illegal watch on a site with shonky adverts.” (Neville has never knowingly watched a film illegally before; clearly, George is experienced in the art.) “There’s one that came out back in June with a main character who kinda reminded me of you. He’s got tinnitus. Did you know that will.i.am has tinnitus?”

“I don’t have tinnitus,” Neville points out. George takes a large bite out of them Milky Way.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s pretty similar.” George presses a kiss to Neville’s temple, a little aimlessly but kindly anyway. “Say, have you ever seen _Harold and Maude_?” Neville shakes his head. “I’ll have to make you watch that. But you’ll probably cry a bit. It’s quite sad.”

“Why – what happens? If a dog dies, George, I swear...”

“No, no, it’s not like _Marley and Me_ – fuck, Neville, you think I’d make you ever watch a movie as soul-destroying as _Marley and Me_? I mean, it’s quite sad, but it makes you think about things, anyway...” He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, I think you’d like it.” They sit in silence as Neville chews his way through his half of the Milky Way; he’s never been much of a fan, but it’s nice anyway. He tends not to eat much after dinner and end up starving the later the night drones on. “Okay – I know you hate being asked, so I’m sorry – but do you ever have silence? Do you ever just not have any music playing – can you stand it at all?”

Neville shrugs; the question isn’t malicious, and George just seems concerned, so he couldn’t care less that the question’s being asked at all. “I can have no music for a while, but the longer I go without, the louder the sound gets, and when it gets too loud, that’s when I struggle. So sometimes I let playlists play out and have time to find another one.”

“Huh.” George finishes his Milky Way. “I was just curious – I mean, it’d be quite hard to just keep going all the time, especially with songs with pauses and stuff and trying to find another playlist when one runs out, or when Spotify bugs out and crashes and there’s no music...”

Neville laughs. “I can somehow cope.”

“Mm. Wasn’t questioning that; any boy who can sing Fatboy Slim while having a panic attack is definitely one that can cope.” George puts an arm around Neville and squeezes, and though Neville has never really understood the concept of being in love with someone before, it seems to click like pieces of a puzzle.

* * *

 _You Know It – Colony House  
_ “What the fuck,” Fred says loudly, leaning over the table. “Get to absolute fuck, Thomas, you wanker! Clearly, the best famous twins are the Proclaimers – _Legend_ tells you everything you need to know about the Kray twins, and that is that they both had really annoying voices.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “For the record, I think the Kray twins are infinitely more interesting than the Proclaimers. I think they’ve done a lot more of note.”

“And they have a movie,” Ron adds.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Proclaimers have a movie,” Fred grumbles, collapsing back in his seat. “ _Sunshine on Leith_. It had that cute guy from Barney Thomson – the whole movie’s like a nice version of _Trainspotting_ , just to cancel out the shit representation that film gave poor old Leith, though Oliver told me it was a ‘shitehole’ down there anyway.” He turns to George. “Come on, mate. Back me up here.”

“Hold on,” George says, holding his hand level with Fred’s chest, “I’m trying to weigh up who’s hotter here: Tom Hardy, or the guy from Barney Thomson, who I’m sure has a name that clearly none of us can be bothered to look up.”

“I’ve got the IMDB app,” Colin offers.

“Of course you do,” Harry groans from across the other end of the table with a mouthful of deep pan Hawaiian. Draco is sitting next to him, looking entirely perturbed by everything that’s going on and by the fact that they’re having a very large argument about famous twins.

“Great. I want a name. He plays that police officer, the second in command to – oh, God, what’s his name? – Ray Winstone. You figure it out.” George sits and strokes an imaginary goatee that Neville has suggested he actually grow for the fun of it (unbeknownst to Neville, George’s facial hair looks nothing but pathetic and ratty; it’s his biggest let-down in life). “I don’t know. I think Tom Hardy’s a little overrated, personally.”

“You _take that back_ ,” Seamus says, leaping across as if George has just launched a personal attack on him. “Tom Hardy is so feckin’ fit – you take that back right now, George Weasley, or heaven help me.”

“I didn’t say he _wasn’t_ fit,” George responds. “He’s really fit, Christ, Finnigan. No-one can deny that. But I think he’s a little overrated in level of fitness. I mean, he’s not really my type, either. That guy – the one from Barney Thomson, Creevey, have you got a name yet? – is more of my shtick, I guess. Hence lovely little Neville here and not Cormac McLaggen.”

“I say we have Neville decide,” Katie says proudly and officially. “If you can’t decide, George.”

Everyone on the table, save the shell-shocked Draco, lets out a low murmur of agreement; Neville goes red, not sure he’s in the right position to make this kind of executive decision. Colin flips his phone round with a proud beam and yelps “Kevin Guthrie!”.

“Kevin Guthrie!” George gasps. “Can’t believe I forgot his name. Creevey, we need photos of Hardy and Guthrie, stat.”

“You know, I’m sure we were judging the Proclaimers,” Ginny says thoughtfully.

“Kevin is a stand-in for the Proclaimers,” Harry tells her sagely. Ginny looks at Luna and raises an eyebrow, but Luna seems to be too busy enjoying the argument that’s broken out between everyone but Neville over which of the two men is better-looking to respond, and Ginny supposes that’s probably a more fun way to enjoy the situation. “Guys – guys, we said Neville would judge!”

“Yes!” Hermione says, trying to bring down the noise level of the boisterous table and not achieving much until Seamus screeches in his usual Irish twang “shut the feckin’ hell up you buncha wanks!”, at which point everyone turns simultaneously to Neville, who raises a hand to give himself a spare second to put on a different son; George borrows one of his earphones to listen along.

 _Teenage Kicks – The Undertones  
_ “Let me see the pictures,” he says, and Colin passes along his phone, bearing two stunningly low-resolution photos of the two actors. He’s not sure he’s particularly interested in either of them (Neville’s celebrity crush has been Joseph Gordon-Levitt since Inception), but he gives them a squint and glances over at George for the briefest of moments.

“Go on,” George says softly. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“I have to say Kevin,” Neville says with a shrug. “Tom Hardy is great, but... I’m not convinced he wouldn’t be able to crush me to death? Is that weird?”

Seamus shrugs. “I’ve heard weirder. Mostly from Dean.”

Just as they think they’ve settled back into the routine of actually eating all their pizzas and being as obnoxiously loud as it’s possible for high school students to be, Fred decides to stand up, tapping one of the pizza stands against his glass of pop as he clambers onto the table. “Alright, alright. Sorry to interrupt everybody’s amazing time – thanks for all coming, by the way – but there’s a couple of words I’d like to say. Well, more than a couple. Quite a lot. Someone keep count. Anyways, I know this is shaping up to be a really shit year, and we’re all having a bad time under that absolute cow Umbridge and with Voldemort’s return, but I’m glad that you guys are all here helping us out to make this year a bit less absolutely dreadful. The best part of being at Hogwarts is all you big lumps, and you guys are what I’m going to miss the most – even more than Peeves – and I also wanted to give a shoutout to Neville over there for pissing me off all summer because George wouldn’t stop playing music I didn’t like, and another shoutout to Neville because he’s a stand-up guy and the one making my mirror reflection the happiest guy alive. Now, I don’t keep track of all your relationships and that boring gossip, but I’m very aware that this is the year in which love is a-blossoming and the times they are a-changing, so though I can’t name and shame you all, I’m glad that we’re all supporting each other and having a riot of a time and this speech is way too serious, but oh well. And thank you, Draco, for turning up and not being a wankstain, for once. Harry’s got you sorted.” He gets back down and hovers over his chair, holding his glass tightly. “A toast to friendship, and a toast to say fuck Umbridge, she is the _actual_ worst!”

“Here, here!” Everyone at the table smiles, and raises their glasses, empty or not, water or pop, making a solid effort to tap theirs to everyone else’s, even when the other person is at the other end of the three or four tables shoved together to fit them all around.

Neville catches Dean in the commotion, leaning over to him. “Thank you so much for the idea,” he says as quietly as possible over the very loud humdrum that is a lot of Gryffindors all in a room together. “This is really great. I’m so happy.”

“Oh, no problem, mate,” Dean says with a grin. “Everyone’s enjoying themselves. It’s great. By the way, Harry was asking me earlier if you could do us all a favour and make a playlist for the DA? We could use some really good music, keep us all going, no matter what happens. It would be really great to have some music to share, keep us connected in a way that isn’t the WhatsApp group and the coins, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Neville says, trying to hide the grin that’s creeping onto his features. “But, I really need some help, too. George has been looking for a song to play me for ages, a kind of love song, maybe? A song that we could enjoy together, and he’s really struggling to find one, so if you could help him out in any way...”

“Got it,” Dean says instantly, nodding. “Totally got it. Deal.”

Neville smiles, and he can’t stop for the rest of the day, even when he’s back in the common room and drumming to the beat of _Not Too Soon_ on the table, George in bed and his stomach bursting with pizza.


	4. Cupid

_Born Slippy (Nuxx) – Underworld  
_ It’s not a song that anybody in the DA would necessarily have thought to be a part of Neville’s repertoire, but it’s what echoes through the boom box in the corner as they practice, and despite the fact that it’s a shock to the members, it spurts them on well enough thanks to its heavy beat and chant of _lager, lager, lager, lager, lager!_ like an anthem.

Despite the song spurring him on, Neville’s hopeless. It opens every meeting, but he doesn’t seem to be getting any better, still unable to cast any spells in an effective way, despite George’s constant support and the support of all the other members and Harry where they can spare their time. It’s like the magic just won’t come through him – it channels like a firecracker, and then spits out of his wand like a water gun. He’s determined, though – he practises in every spare moment, and gets George to help him out sometimes, though he never manages to disarm George, despite the reverse occurring plenty times.

As it nears the end of term, though, and spirits run higher as Christmas looms, he begins to pick up: he doesn’t know what does it, because despite Dean’s reassurances, George doesn’t find a song, and nothing in particular seems to occur in his life, but it just starts to click, to make sense where it didn’t before, and when he whips his wand and bellows “ _expelliarmus_!” like he really means it, the wand goes flying out of George’s hand, and he stares, gobsmacked.

“Holy shit,” George says, staring at his hand and then at his wand, lying on the cold stone floor. “Nev! You did it!” He raises his hand and lets out a whoop, charging into Neville like a bull seeing red and pulling him into a hug that knocks all the air from his lungs as he laughs, grinning into Neville’s hair and his neck and then his lips. “Oh, man. I’m so proud. I feel like a parent.”

“Yeah, but then that’d be gross,” Neville points out. George snorts.

“Shut up. I was having a moment.” He kisses the tip of Neville’s nose, and scoops his wand back up from the floor to let Neville be swarmed by other members, clapping him on the back and passing on their warm compliments, and the feeling of warmth that swells up in his stomach is so great that he starts to tear up, and retires from the meeting early, George accompanying him wearing the prettiest smile Neville thinks he might’ve ever seen in his life, because it’s a smile that just radiates affection. “Hey. What are you crying about, silly? You did so well.”

Neville places his earphones in. “I’m just... I’m really happy,” he says. “I’m so glad I could do it. I’ve been working so hard.”

“Oh, wait.” George procures his phone and a headphone splitter, looking like Christmas has come early as he plugs their earphones in, watching Neville’s face carefully, clearly waiting for something. “I found a song – hell, it’s not _a_ song, it’s _the_ song. Come on, let’s go somewhere more private.” He lets it play as they walk, a comfortable skip in his step as he lets the song wash over Neville.

 _Cupid – The Big Moon_  
If the feeling of warmth in Neville’s chest had made his cry, the way he feels when the song kicks off is even stronger, and he lets out a choked sob – George looks alarmed for the briefest of moments, turning back to check if Neville’s okay when he’s knocked into the wall by the force of Neville’s kiss, like none they’ve ever shared before, full and awash with passion they’ve never quite had the opportunity to rear yet, too busy just living and existing to think about how much they care and how much that feeling of caring burns at their hearts.

George’s hands scrabble at Neville’s shoulders as he kisses back, trying to make some sense of what he should be doing with his tongue as the guitar echoes all around him and around Neville, the same emotions and the same chords flooding their brains at the same time as they grin and kiss and have no idea what they’re doing but go for it anyway. “What the heck are you crying for now?” George laughs in one of the moments they’re apart, spinning Neville around.

“I don’t know!” Neville says exasperatedly. “It’s... it’s you, I think. You’re just so... so good?”

“Oh, thank you, darling. I’m flattered.” George giggles, amused, touching his forehead to Neville’s; he feels almost like he’s burning up with glee, their fingers wound tightly together by their sides. “I dunno, Neville. I think you’re the great one here – I mean, if you weren’t here, this year would just be absolute hell...”

“And if you weren’t here, I probably would’ve gone crazy a long time ago,” Neville assures George, trying not to let that thought linger as he reaches up to let his hands rest on George’s neck as they move in to kiss again, their lips a horrible teenage mess of saliva and desperately needing lip salve, but neither of them really stop to care, instead listening to the music that’s passing through them and to the sound of the heartbeats that rush through their arteries.

Neville would like to be left in this moment forever, and when the song ends, his hand closes over George’s as they wind it back to the start.

* * *

 _How Soon Is Now? – The Smiths  
_ Leaving for Christmas break isn’t as joyful as Neville would expect: the Weasleys are gone on what has been called “family affairs”, and George isn’t answering his phone or Facebook messenger; other members of the DA have been trying to contact the absentees over the WhatsApp group, but with no joy, leaving them all rather confused and despondent as they clamber onto the train, Neville sharing his carriage with Luna, Dean, and Seamus.

“Even Draco looks bugged,” Seamus notes as he dumps the contents of his bag out on the table: Swizzels sweets, and enough to probably give them all stomach aches. Neville has a few packets of Parma Violets and Fizzers, trying not to pay too much attention to the way Dean and Seamus are giggling as they share Love Hearts.

“Hey, Nev,” Dean says softly, tossing a Love Heart that Luna has to catch before it disappears into the abyss that is the Hogwarts Express. It says _don’t cry_ , and Neville smiles faintly as he pops it into his mouth, dissolving it under his tongue like a Strepsil, like it’s some sort of medicine. “I’m sure we’ll get some word from him soon. There’s probably a lot going on.”

“Yeah,” Neville nods; he knows this, too, but it’s still not fun being on the end of a radio silence. Luna doesn’t seem outwardly perturbed, looking mostly like her usual chirpy self and watching _Chicken Run_ on her iPad as the Scottish countryside rushes past outside, disappearing by. He has other things on his mind, too: he always visits his parents on Christmas, and as much as he loves them and wants to see them, it also hurts him to see them the way they are. “Oh – um, by the way, Dean, did you suggest that song to George?”

“Nah, I asked Lee. He’s usually into aggressive punk, Sex Pistols and early Clash kind of stuff, but apparently he’s also into that album. What do you think?”

Neville smiles. “I love it.”

“Oh, thank fuck. I had no idea what you were into and just had to hope for the best.”

“That song _was_ the best.”

* * *

When Neville gets off the train, he accidentally bumps into Draco, flinching away and waiting for whatever derogatory comment he’s going to earn – but instead, he’s met with a moment of silence, Draco seeming to almost appraise him, from the whites of his knuckles where they grip his suitcase to the grubby soles of his Converse.

“Longbottom,” he says quietly, and then Neville swears he actually _nods_ before walking off.

* * *

 _Formidable – The Big Moon  
_ Christmas arrives, and in the Longbottom household, it always arrives quietly, like every other day. It’s always just Neville and his Gran – there’s a larger family gathering on Boxing Day, with cousins and aunties and uncles, but Christmas has never felt like anything but another day to him.

Usually, he gets up early to be there at the start of visiting hours, but he’s been awake all night anyway, flicking from reading _Carrie_ to watching the films he has on DVD (usually bought for him by clueless family members; Neville sits through all of _The Matrix_ , even though he’s never enjoyed it). He gets ready an hour before he leaves, pulling on a button-down shirt and a pair of brown jeans and then his Converse, pausing a moment as he realises that, on the sides of his boots, George has written _put your life on it_ in black Sharpie.

He doesn’t choke up, because he knows everyone’s been waiting, and clearly, something important is happening, but he almost does.

There’s a stereo by his parents’ bed so that they can listen to music; it’s a love passed from them to him, and though he plays them The Drums’s _Abysmal Thoughts_ , he keeps his earphones in and listens to something else; he doesn’t really feel like listening to The Drums, because they remind him a little too much of George and of Friday afternoons, and he’s deliberately avoiding the thought of George until he finally sends a message over. His parents are, of course, as out of it as ever, and his mother tucks his hands with sweet wrappers, kindly as ever.

“Neville?”

He goes still, turning his head: Hermione is standing behind him, her eyes wide and sorrowful; she looks as if she’s deliberately trying not to look at his parents, trying not to think about how horrible the whole situation is, though Neville has to face it every day. He gives her a look that might’ve been a grimace or a smile but doesn’t turn out as much but a pained expression. “Hi, Hermione.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” she says quietly.

“Every Christmas,” he replies. She looks sorry, though he doesn’t really want her pity.

“George is here, you know.”

Neville shrugs. “I don’t think he’ll want to see me,” he says, and that’s true – nobody wants to see this, him and his empty parents, the misery laid bare for all to see. Nobody wants to really see what the Death Eaters do – they want to hold Harry up on their shoulders and celebrate, and not look back at what’s been left behind. Hermione picks at her nail.

“I think he will,” she says, gently insistent. “Can I at least ask him?”

“Okay,” Neville shrugs; if George wants to see him, then he’d love to see George, too – he just doesn’t want to push it, especially if George is here to see someone.

But when she comes back, she comes back with George in tow, hands tucked in the pockets of his patchwork trousers, pulled up Simon Cowell high and the waistband resting what looks like it might be just above his bellybutton. He doesn’t look angry, or sad, just wearing a weary smile and bearing the bruise-coloured bags under his eyes that belie his lack of sleep.  
_  
_ “Hi,” Neville says, trying not to miss a beat. George grins.

“Hey,” he says, reaching up to put his arms around Neville; usually, George hugs tightly enough to rob Neville of his breath, but he seems a little sedate, and Neville can’t blame him. “I’m so sorry – I stood on my phone and broke it, and I haven’t really had time to think about sending any messages...”

“It’s okay,” Neville says earnestly, taking a moment to rest his head on George’s shoulder before letting go of him and straightening out. “I’m really sorry; I haven’t gotten you anything, I was...”

“Distracted? Yeah, don’t worry about it. I got you something ages ago – you mind if I Apparate back and get it?” Neville shakes his head and jumps despite himself when George disappears with a noise that’s somewhere between a crack and a pop, leaving Neville with just his parents: his father is dozing lightly with a packet of gum in his hand, and his mother is trying to make sense of a Where’s Wally book.

When George returns, he’s actually beaming from ear-to-ear in a way that isn’t fake or put on, holding out a bag to Neville from a shop he doesn’t recognise. “Merry Christmas – is it okay to say Neville? I don’t know what pet name to go for. Baby and babe just seem a bit much, and calling you dear makes me sound like I’m fifty.”

“In French, they use terms like my duck, my rabbit, my sweet bun, my shrimp, my mouse...” Neville goes red as George laughs heartily.

“Merry Christmas, sweet bun,” he whispers, leaning in to press a playful kiss to Neville’s cheek. “Go on. Have a look.” Neville nods and opens the bag; it’s the deluxe version of Kasabian’s _For Crying Out Loud_ , and next to it is a CD case that’s clearly for no album that exists in the real world: it’s had paper slotted in the front and in the sides, with illustrations hand-drawn by George (who’s not bad, as it goes) with some help from Dean and Lee and a neatly handwritten tracklist on the back that definitely wasn’t written by George, whose handwriting is completely illegible. “Okay – I kind of took a bit of a head start, and I finished that playlist for us, so listen to it and tell me what you think.” He taps the Kasabian CD. “There’s a live CD in that, too, and you really need to listen to L.S.F. And Skype me while you’re doing it.”

Neville raises his eyebrows, because raising one is some kind of freaky skill he doesn’t seem to have inherited – he’s not sure it runs in his family at all. “Okay, sure – thank you so much, George, I really appreciate it, I...” He turns the CD over in his hands. “I kind of love you.”

“Charmer,” George grins, kissing Neville’s forehead. “I kind of love you too.”

“I’ll send something over soon,” Neville promises. “Oh, and, um, I think another French term of endearment is my cabbage.”

“Very romantic,” George nods. “Okay. You can call me that, because you’re going to be my sweet bun and that’s settled. Or my duck, so long as we never go and feed the ducks together, otherwise it’d get confusing.” He runs a hand through Neville’s hair. “I gotta go right now, but I’ll definitely message you at some point soon, okay? We’ll talk, but for now, _au revoir_.”

He gives Neville’s parents a look, and waves when Alice notices him before ducking out of the ward and away again. Neville clutches the playlist to his chest, and grins, because he thinks he knows what he’ll be listening to for the rest of the holidays – and longer.

* * *

 _Cherry Bomb – The Runaways  
_ Thanks to the glory that is using Facebook messenger through Fred’s phone, George and Neville manage to co-ordinate a Skype meeting together where George will open the large parcel that’s arrived from Neville and Neville will listen to the track George told him to listen to. Neville suddenly feels an immense sense of pressure to look a bit better than usual (over the holidays, he doesn’t really do much or go anywhere and always ends up looking a bit like a human disaster, sporting pathetic stubble and not putting a brush even near his hair), so about ten minutes before, he hurriedly runs to the bathroom, shaves, brushes his hair a bit (which is hard, because he has some extreme bedhead), and changes out of his lounging-around clothes (a Shaun of the Dead T-shirt and a pair of grey jogging trousers) and into a nice button-down and... well, okay, he doesn’t change out of the trousers; he just flings the button-down over his T-shirt and sits his laptop at his desk so that nobody has to see his lower half.

George calls about five minutes late anyway, not looking particularly put together either: his hair is a shaggy mess and his shirt doesn’t look like it’s been anywhere near an iron lately, but he seems happy anyway. “Cherry Bomb! I love this song.”

“I thought maybe we’d listened to too much Palma Violets,” Neville shrugs. “So I wanted to listen to something different.”

“There’s no such thing as too much Palma Violets, but there’s nothing wrong with listening to something else, I guess.” George leans back on his bed; his laptop is sitting at the foot of it while he’s sitting cross-legged in the centre, looking lazy and like he should be crawled under the covers instead of sitting on top. “So – who goes first?”

“Well, since I’ve already technically opened your present, you open my present now,” Neville suggests, and George nods, pulling over the huge cardboard box (repurposed from the purchasing of Neville’s record player) that had taken two bickering owls to deliver and slitting the sellotape with a neatly cast _diffindo_. “Here we go...” He pulls the box apart and throws out the stuffing (Neville was having a bit too much fun packing the box) with a grin, reaching in and pulling out a CD – Neville always feels bad giving CDs because they’re so small, but George beams. “Is this – this is the one with Cupid on it!”

It’s _Love in the 4 th Dimension_, the debut album by The Big Moon; it’s been going round Neville’s head thanks to George’s inclusion of two of their songs on their shared playlist (which has been aptly named _Shut Up Kiss Me_ ) and he knew that George would like it, too. “Yeah, it’s their only album, it’s really good!”

“Yes! Thanks so much, Nev,” George cheers, placing it by his side as he reaches into the box again, this time cackling madly as he withdraws the next item: it’s a large fluffy soft toy cabbage, and Neville is ridiculously proud of himself for finding one while out wrapped up shopping in Muggle London. “Oh God, I love you. Not just kind of: I _really_ love you. You’re amazing.”

“I’m so glad I found one,” Neville laughs.

“Me too,” George says, hugging it to his chest. “It’s so soft. Now, come on, you need to listen to that song.” He waits patiently as Neville heads over to the stereo system in his room and sifts through his Spotify, having to shout over to George to be reminded of the track name, and he carefully cranks the volume up, to make sure that George can hear clearly, too.

 _L.S.F. – Live at King Power Stadium – Kasabian  
_ Neville recognises the chords immediately, and beams. “It’s that song,” he says with a laugh as he adjusts one of the buttons of his shirt. “Uh – Praise You, Fatboy Slim, right?” George nods.

“They sound awesome, don’t they?”

“Amazing,” Neville says, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling, letting his foot tap against the carpeted floor of his room and his hands tap against his desk, disappearing away into the track, captivated as it lapses out of _Praise You_ and in to _L.S.F._ , upping his pattern of drumming on the table; George is lying flat back on his bed, half-heartedly singing along. “I love this.”

“Knew you would,” George says, and Neville’s pretty sure that he, too, is grinning up at the ceiling. “How are you enjoying the playlist?”

“Best thing I’ve ever listened to,” Neville replies. “I can’t wait to listen to it with you.”


	5. The Wire

_King of the Beach – Wavves_  
The first order of business when they get back is for Umbridge to stress the new Educational Decree or whatever they’re called (Neville has never paid too much attention to them, save the one that permitted boys and girls from being within a certain distance of each other; he’d just smiled to himself as he walked past, trying not to cackle) that music isn’t allowed to be played in class, and as the words wash over the Gryffindor table, a great number of them seize up and all start staring at Neville, whose earphones are tucked neatly into his ears.

Fred is the first to stand up, right on top of the table, and he yells his feelings out at Umbridge; Neville is surprised at the amount of obscenity flowing through his lips, and wonders whether or not this is an expulsory offence, hoping that it’s not – and, to his surprise, as Fred is screeching that Umbridge is a wicked cow who’s just picking on Neville at this point, George clambers up behind him, and suddenly Seamus is doing the same and Dean is following and it seems like the entire DA are on their feet, followed by the rest of the Gryffindor table, screaming out their compliments for Neville and disregards for Umbridge.

They’re dismissed, of course, eventually, and all given detention (save Neville, who sat with his mouth hanging open the whole time), but as they shuffle out of the feast muttering to each other, McGonagall pulls Neville aside. “There is really no way you can go without listening to music, Longbottom?” she asks, sounding desperate. He shakes his head, and she places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Very well. I’ll see if there’s something I can do.”

But it’s not McGonagall, in the end, who saves Neville: his first lesson of the day is History of Magic, and he’s okay because Professor Binns pays no attention to any of Umbridge’s rules whatsoever, but it comes as a surprise to all of them when the intercoms suddenly come alive with a loud and very brash Weasley voice. “Hello there, ladies, gentlemen, and all other gender identities! Now, our dearly hated Dolores Umbridge has passed a decree banning listening to music in class, and we think that this is completely unfair – and I’m sure you all agree, of course, because music helps you concentrate, doesn’t it? And we think she’s singling out a wonderful and hard-working student here, and for them, we would like to say we love them.”

The class falls into silence as _Killer Queen_ begins to float through the speakers, and then they begin to laugh.

By the time Neville has Defense Against the Dark Arts, nobody has yet been able to stop the barrage of Queen and Umbridge looks furious, her face bright red and almost purple as she stands taut at the front of the classroom; Neville’s been able to keep his earphones out all day, and they’re stuffed in his pocket as he walks into class, which is also when _Bohemian Rhapsody_ opens.

The chaos and choruses are indescribable.

The entirety of Gryffindor house, save Neville, is missing at dinner, and so he sits with Luna, who is still chuckling softly at the speakers, which are playing _You’re My Best Friend_. “So many people love you, Neville,” she says softly, squeezing his hand before she leans in. “I stood up for you too, they just didn’t catch me.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Neville says with a smile. “I can’t believe everyone would stand up for me like this...”

“You’re a good guy, Neville,” she assures him. “People like you; they really do.”

* * *

 _The Wire – HAIM  
_ The days begin to fall into each other, and then the weeks, and then the months begin to disappear in a strange haze of George and music and Dumbledore’s Army and pizza from Fortescue’s; Neville is acquitted in a school-wide referendum on whether or not to implement the decree to ban music in class, and the votes to implement the rule are so low that the referendum was almost pointless. The Gryffindors all begin to ignore the rules in wonderful earnest: Fred, George, and Lee smuggle in a huge set of speakers and Neville plays music through them and into the common room every night, and when Fred and Hermione kiss for the first time, it’s on the stairs and in full view of plenty teachers, with surprisingly no repercussions.

Neville and Harry don’t often talk or really move in the same spheres; Neville doesn’t have much of a clue what’s going on with Harry, who seems to be keeping to himself, and instead talks to Dean, Seamus, and Hermione, who seems to have plenty of time to spare when it comes to Neville.

All in all, he’s enjoying himself this year, Umbridge or no, threat of Voldemort or no. When he comes in to the common room, there’s always someone to speak to; when he has dinner, he sits in a big group with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and Slytherins and they all talk happily together; on Friday afternoons, no matter what the weather, he and George go for walks outside or sit on one of the benches together, watching the lazy sky and sharing earphones.

It’s no surprise, though, when on one of these Friday afternoons, George turns to him and says, “Neville, Fred and I are gonna leave before the Easter holidays,” squeezing his hand. Neville has almost known that the news was coming, because the pair of them are just going stir-crazy under her rule, what with their products and their only source of fun; he understands, really, and blaming George would just be stupid. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Neville shrugs. “I’d leave, too, if I didn’t have to stay.”

“Really?” George frowns. “Look, duck, I’m not joking, we’re really leaving, and you seem to be taking this a bit too well.”

Neville turns. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to stay here if you didn’t want to. I know it’s your last year, too, so you’re going to be leaving soon enough anyway, and I just want you to be happy.” He leans in and kisses George chastely. “I mean, we can always Skype.”

George laughs. “That’s true. And it’s almost the Easter holidays, so I might be paying a couple visits over to Longbottom Manor...” He pokes Neville’s chest, putting a hand behind Neville’s neck to pull him in and kiss him. “God, I was expecting you to cry or something. You’re freaky. Please at least play _Hard Times_ while I’m gone.”

“I’m sad,” Neville corrects, “but there’s no point in getting angry.” He shrugs, and smiles. “I will. I’ll play it in the common room after you leave, and I’ll play it really loudly, too.”

“Great. Everyone’ll love that.” George leans down to kiss Neville’s forehead. “Now, we need to talk about playing something for when we leave...”

“I’ve got something,” Neville says instantly, rifling in his pocket for his phone. “It’s called Saddest Summer, and it’s by The Drums...”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Also, just in case you're curious, I was inspired a lot by Baby Driver and there's a reference or two to it and other works of Edgar Wright in the fic - also, if you want, come yell on me at Tumblr @chrlieweasleys!


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